


Divides

by antagonists



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Historical Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 19:43:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7545549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antagonists/pseuds/antagonists
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spirits are restless on moonless nights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Divides

**Author's Note:**

>   
> [inspired by ^ and a line about hitodama](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hitodama) from [chapter 16 of 万葉集](http://jti.lib.virginia.edu/japanese/manyoshu/AnoMany.html): [人魂乃 佐青有之 但獨 相有之雨夜 葉非左思所念]  
>  btw hanamura (花村）also literally translates to ‘flower village’ which is pretty dumb and cute
> 
>  
> 
> [[eli ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Archedes/pseuds/Archedes)beta'd this ty!!]

*

 

 

Spirits are restless on moonless nights.

 

He steps past fallen pillars, over faded red paint and shattered roof tile, a small lantern illuminating his path in a dim ring. It wouldn’t surprise him if there is still smoke curling up from the burnt wood; spellfires have always been nearly impossible to extinguish without proper rituals, and these castle grounds have long since been abandoned, left to fester amidst crumbling architecture and unfulfilled wishes. The Shimada onmyouji have moved to a better castle, and he has too many lingering attachments to the time he’d spent here to leave for good.

 

Pale blue fire traces vague circles around a spirit cloaked in white, following the old trails of where Hanzo would pour purifying salt. Playful, almost, like some of the kaika he had often seen while wandering the forest at night in his childhood.

 

“How do you know of this grave?” he asks, slowly setting down the parcel of offerings that he carries. Though cynical, he must maintain some modicum of respect; wandering ghosts are dangerous, and only those with strong ties to their past memories tend to brood around tombs with wards. Lesser demons and the like cannot step foot in here, kept at bay by the remnants of powerful magic.

 

The spirit turns its head, face a clean slate of glowing white. When it smiles, though, it reveals a mouthful of blackened teeth. Faceless, Hanzo thinks, are probably one of the more dangerous manifestations of the deceased, yet this spirit is oddly sentient and without malicious intent. “An onmyouji turned priest,” it muses in what Hanzo presumes is a stolen voice. “Is there something you are trying to atone for?”

 

“It is not wise to divulge secrets to the dead,” Hanzo says curtly.

 

“It is also unwise to traverse between worlds so often and freely,” the spirit replies. “A step too far past the boundaries, and even your most powerful spells will not help you.”

 

“The world of spirits does not intimidate me.”

 

Considering him, the spirit tilts its head. “You’ve certainly had your share of adventuring in it, I suppose.”

 

Hanzo keeps silent, feeling as though thousands of eyes are watching him. The night is stifling around them, interrupted only by the occasional flicker of fireflies. Shattered pillars cast angry shadows in the wavering light of his lantern, dark and solid.

 

“I’ll leave you to your prayers,” it says after a while, jumping down from the rocky outcrop with eerie grace. “I am sure there is a good reason you hold no fear for yokai.”

 

Only when he is sure that the spirit has vanished completely into the woods does Hanzo finally move. Around himself, he draws a circle with salt, pastes a charm onto the wooden grave marker before him, sets down the offerings and lights incense. As he prays, the yokai around the castle lurk, red-eyed and ravenous.

 

 

*

 

 

“There are better ways to make ends meet than priesthood, you know.”

 

Hanzo looks up from the scripts, startled by the sudden visitor. Not many people climb this far into the mountains to pray—not when there are more well-known shrines closer to sea level. Before the open shoji doors, a local farmhand bows politely. Past her, worn komainu are blurred spots against forest greenery.

 

“Kaede,” he greets the elderly woman, keeping his voice from betraying his surprise. She toes off her geta and shuffles over the tatami to where he sits, carrying a fabric bundle. “How did you find me?”

 

“You have a very distinct description, dear,” she smiles. “You haven’t stopped by our dango shop in years, and I’d only just gotten wind of a new priest after your family left.”

 

“I apologize for not visiting. I have been… preoccupied.”

 

She lays a gentle hand on his arm, eyes kind. Kaede has known him and Genji for as long as they could remember. “I understand. Genji’s passing must not be easy on you, even after some time.”

 

“It’s been years,” he mumbles, ducking his head. She does not know the true cause of his sibling’s death. Outside of the Shimada onmyouji, it is a closely guarded secret. He clenches his fingers into fists and stares resolutely down at calligraphy. Beside him, Kaede slowly unwraps the bundle, removing straw and paper cover to reveal dango—Genji’s favorite. Once, she’d taught him how to make them, and he’d been embarrassed when Genji had shaped them better than he could.

 

“I have another plate you can use for offerings,” Kaede says, noticing his discomfort. “If you ever need company, I’m still in the same old house in Hanamura.”

 

Long after the sun has set, the dango lay uneaten on the low table, near enough for Hanzo to reach out and grab, but far enough that he can ignore them if he stares elsewhere. They are probably stale by now, brown glaze looking more matte with every passing hour. Bird cries in the distance, wind through the trees. There is light tapping outside, constant, as though someone is pacing back and forth in a line outside the shrine gates.

 

Hanzo eats the colored dumplings, sweet sauce thick on his tongue and bitter with memories, if only so the sound of his chewing will drown out the soft rhythm outside.

 

 

*

 

 

On his way down from the shrine at dusk, Hanzo sights faded blue trails of hitodama in the air, swarming around empty stone lantern sockets before dispersing in a flurry of cold wind. He pauses mid-step, only halfway down the long, uneven stairway to the village below. He turns around, eyeing the blinding white figure descending slowly.

 

Upon closer look, illegible pale script runs down the length of its arms and legs, barely visible against its moonlight skin. He tries to read the spell, but it shifts like water. It is barefoot, undyed kimono dragging along stone, obi tied in lazy, haphazard fashion. A paper crown upon its bare head, crimped and fluttering like a colorless leaf. Hanzo has seen many a spirit before, but none quite so peaceful and unnerving.

 

Once they are level, the spirit tilts its head, a gesture that Hanzo has come to recognize as either curiosity or mockery.

 

“Your legs,” it says. Even without eyes, it seems to be looking at his scarred ankles.

 

“Bitten by inugami,” Hanzo says, “on the night my brother died.”

 

“I’ve not seen many survive loosed inugami.”

 

“A brief lapse of control.” Hanzo scowls. “I dismissed them, then exorcised them.”

 

Humming, the spirit takes one step lower, blank face upturned. “It is true that some misled onmyouji specialize in taming, and not exorcisms. The yokai speak often of one who tames the fiercest among them.”

 

Hanzo retains his silence, looking away only when the spirit smiles with teeth like shadow. Dark ink over his arm burns; the memories buried within his skin are especially uneasy when he thinks of expulsion spells. The incantation for banishment tickles the back of his throat. Although the spirit hasn’t shown hostile behavior, there is still something about it that unsettles him. The lack of expression, perhaps, and the way it seems unaffected by the lunar cycle.

 

It neither wanes nor waxes, as others are wont to do, and it speaks far too easily of the living world as if it has just recently been born into death. Hanzo suspects it may be a greater kami, formless as it is.

 

“Why do you still walk these lands?” he asks.

 

“Some say that there are gods born of human sacrifices, morbid wishes,” the spirit returns idly. “Some of us do not have shrines to return to; others are split into pieces, or are simply forgotten and disappear. Some,” it laughs, mouth a chilling, empty hole, “Simply watch the living, overcome with envy.”

 

“Human sacrifices,” Hanzo repeats slowly. He is not unfamiliar with the practice, of course. The Shimada onmyouji before his late father’s time were often barbaric, looking for the bloodiest methods that would leave their hands stained with miasma for months. Loathe as he is to admit, it would not surprise him if those remaining have reverted to forbidden tactics. “Is that your origin?”

 

“Not completely. There are deeper reasons than simple sacrifice.”

 

The spirit takes another step, lower, and another. Its face is turned towards the moon, reflecting silver as all polished mirrors do.

  
“You remind me of kosenjobi, phantoms of warriors on a battlefield seeking to find what has been lost. They are quite common in your bloodline, actually.” The spirit contemplates mildly, flickers like white candlelight. “And they are often colored blue, like your shikigami summons.”

 

Mouth dry, Hanzo shakes his head and ignores the pain in his shoulder. “I am no ghost.”

 

“No,” it agrees amiably. “But you certainly spend enough time near Yomi’s shores to appear as one.”

 

 

*

 

 

Hanzo spends the next few days away from the far-off shrine, opting to spend his time committed to misogi and prayer. Hanamura is a small, warm glow in the distance. As he breathes in deeply, surrounded by icy waters, Hanzo closes his eyes and meditates.

 

He sees his younger brother as he last remembers him, dressed in a dirty kimono, bloody fingers tracing circles over the burbling currents. An unfamiliar touch of small paper crown atop his black hair, obi done hastily and yanked to the side. Straw sandals strewn behind him carelessly, bottoms well-worn and nearly black from use. Around his neck are glass magatama, glinting red. Hanzo recognizes the symbols that Genji writes into the water; the characters for divine protection, small and messy strokes to ward away bad dreams.

 

“You haven’t visited me since spring, brother,” Genji whines. Hanzo keeps his lips sealed—it is a death wish to speak with hallucinations in moments of great weakness; they would tear him apart. “Summer’s almost already over. Won’t you come see me?”

 

Genji dips his entire arm into the water, as if to wash away the blood on his sleeve, but his skin reemerges just as red and torn as before.

 

“Ah, Mother’s going to be angry.” Lighthearted as he has always been, Genji continues, chin propped up on one hand and he inspects his arm. “She never likes it when I get my clothes this dirty.”

 

The water flows on.

 

“Your shoulder is bleeding, brother,” Genji says. Serene, nonplussed. He’s either completely disregarding his slit throat or he doesn’t feel it at all.

 

Hanzo opens his eyes, breathing labored, and touches the ink on his chest. His fingers come away black, and he wrinkles his nose in disgust before dunking them into the water. Once his hand is clean, he slips into the stream, back to the waterfall, and scrubs at the spells etched into his arm. They don’t disappear any, but the ebony continues leaking from the marks all the same.

 

It is nightfall by the time he’s pulled himself out of the river, shivering in the dark as he reaches for his yukata. He’ll go visit Genji’s grave tomorrow. Tonight, even after he’s spent hours purifying himself, the spell rebound from years ago churns with hot ire and guilt in his veins.

 

 

*

 

 

“You look weary,” the spirit greets. For the briefest moment, Hanzo sees the flicker of his brother’s face over clean white, and he has to blink away the mental image.

 

“Purification,” he grunts, laying out his tools and slowly pouring the salt in a large circle. He removes the old charm, burns it within his hands. Over blank paper, he leads brush with practiced motions until the last stroke seeps into white. Through the curling smoke, he presses the new charm onto the grave marker with his palm. Energy thrums at his fingertips.

 

And the yokai watch him, hungry.

 

“The cause for my brother’s death,” he murmurs carefully, staring at the spirit’s pale robes, “is taboo spells. I bear the rest of the miasma his broken body could no longer take in.”

 

“Spells like this, perhaps?” the spirit queries, lifting the hem of its kimono to reveal alabaster scars down to its toes. They are perfect reflections of his memories. Hanzo stares, and sighing, lowers his gaze to the ground. Where the curse leaves off on the back of Hanzo’s hand, it continues down the spirit’s exposed leg. Wherever his brother’s ghost walks, the footprints left behind glow softly with wispy magic, glow with summer greens. Around the white ring, he paces, silent through the thick cover of night.

 

He closes his eyes, incense smoke strong and bitter over his tongue. “You’ve been observing me all this time.”

 

Genji shrugs, still expressionless. “A greater man would have been more suspicious from the beginning.” When Hanzo does not respond, he tilts his head—curiously? Mockingly? “Do you still resent yourself? Those spells will not fade, even with death.”

 

“Death does not come easily for us,” Hanzo grouses. “I will wear them for as long as I must.”

 

“Noble, I suppose. Is this still about honor?”

 

He lights another stick of incense. “Stop your faceless ruse. If you’re truly between worlds, you will still have a form.”

 

Genji’s eyes glitter like polished jade. Hanzo does not take time to gaze long upon the runes scrawled over his brother’s cheeks, his lips, his eyelids, nor does he pay mind to the crooked smile. He is not quite ready to reread the angry scripts that he realizes must cover Genji’s whole body.

 

“Visit again soon, brother,” Genji chides as Hanzo walks away. Uneaten dumplings and sake sit by the empty grave. The light of Hanzo’s lantern trembles, a lonely flame walking through gloom.

 

 

*

 


End file.
